Mileage
by Clair de Lune - ITML
Summary: At mile 14, there’s a big red STOP, it actually encourages Michael to start. Slash. Michael/Lincoln


**Notes:** This is a slightly longer version of a drabble initially written for an aborted challenge at foxriver-fic. The prompt was PWP, Michael/Lincoln and a car. Thanks to Recycled Faery for the beta.  
**Warnings:** Slash, incest

**MILEAGE**

He loves to go camping. One week each year, just the two of them. Nobody to wonder, ask, raise their eyebrows at Lincoln and him. He loves to go camping.

But truth be told, he loves the road trip to their camp site even more. The further they go from Chicago, the further they get into...

At mile 14, there's a big red STOP – it actually encourages Michael to start. He shifts in his seat, leans towards Lincoln and nibbles his neck open-mouthed, sweet and greedy altogether. The kiss leaves a slight wet trail, a tiny bite mark on the skin, and a salty flavor on his own lips; he instinctively licks them to savor the taste.

Lincoln sneers. "Um, already?"

As a punishment, Michael bites hard in Lincoln's earlobe. His brother does not protest: he just massages his stinging ear and starts the car again. It's not like he can do anything about it. It's not like he wants to do anything about it either.

oOo

At mile 42, Michael lays a hand on Lincoln's knee and lets it wander, stroke and knead. Up and up and up. The muscles, reactive and warm even through the rough jeans, tense and flex beneath his fingers. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Lincoln's face flushing a bit and his knuckles whitening as he clutches the wheel.

"I'm driving," Linc points out, casting him an accusatory glance. His breath shallowly hitches, and Michael smiles.

"Yeah, I've noticed. Watch the road."

At mile 48, Michael's hand is on Lincoln's crotch. His fingers barely move and press, just hard enough to make Lincoln grit out: "I _am_ driving."

"You want to stop?"

"No."

Lincoln grabs his wrist and pulls his hand away. Michael dutifully folds his hands in his lap, moves in his seat, and turns his back on Lincoln.

"Don't pout," his brother sternly tells him.

"I'm not." He doesn't. Honestly. He's an adult: he doesn't pout; he takes a break in order to fully enjoy the rest of the trip. With his back to Lincoln and his face to the window. It allows him to appreciate the landscape anyway.

oOo

At mile 83, he's asleep in his seat (almost asleep, but Lincoln doesn't need to know that). It's their last planned break before they reach their destination. He doesn't move when Linc gently shakes him, because he knows he can get something much, much better. That's part of the game. And as a matter of fact, Lincoln bends over him with a whisper – "Eh, Michael..." – and kisses him on the cheek, on the corner of the mouth, then right on the mouth. He opens his lips under Linc's, revels in the kiss and kisses back, teeth and tongue fighting for dominance. For a few seconds, the only noises are the soft murmur of clothes ruffling clothes, the wet sound of the kiss and the small appreciative hums neither one of them would admit they're letting out.

Finally, Lincoln looks up and asks: "Wanna grab something..." Smirk. Michael's hands slide down Lincoln's back, to his hips, then to... Linc rolls his eyes. "... to eat? Wanna grab something to eat?"

oOo

From mile 83 to mile 116, Michael is driving and Lincoln makes good use of the respite to leisurely explain... _detail_ everything he's planning to do to Michael and let Michael do to him. Michael makes a point of staying perfectly unresponsive and he focuses on driving – and on breathing. But at mile 116, without a word, he pulls over and they switch again.

Lincoln grins when he sits behind the wheel – payback's a bitch.

oOo

At mile 121, barely a dozen miles before the camp site, the sun is already setting, the passenger seat is totally reclined, and Michael is sprawled out, all decency long forgotten. (He's had to talk Lincoln into this but honestly, it was pretty easy.) He writhes, twists and arches upwards as Lincoln's mouth tightly closes on him, works up and down, kisses and licks, applies just the right amount of pressure. Heaven on earth. He shamelessly gasps and groans, takes hold of... something and squeezes hard.

And everything suddenly stops. Hell on earth. He squeezes harder, hopeful and encouraging. He would probably yell if Lincoln's breath didn't deliciously warm his skin when his brother protests: "Let go of my ears. Damn! You know what happened last time."

"Sorry."

"Not the ears," Lincoln insists before bending down again.

Just the right amount of pressure... his head lolls back and he clutches at Lincoln's shoulders.

oOo

At mile 132, aka'arrival', Lincoln switches the engine off, then hastily grasps and shoves Michael. All hurry, no finesse, still some tenderness. It's cold and dark outside but the residual heat of the day warms up the inside of the car. Good thing because...

"Backseat," demands Lincoln.

Michael makes a fuss about it, arguing they will be cramped and uncomfortable back here, and he will have to curl up in strange and awkward positions; but he moves. Because, really... it's nothing but an act – part of the game too.

"We could get the bags first," he complains.

"Easy for you to say. Remember mile 121."

Very soon the windows are covered with condensation; he can feel the moisture on his left shoulder. It i _is_ /i cramped and uncomfortable back here and he has to twist in a weird way, but Lincoln slides into him and starts to move smoothly. Michael closes his eyes, arches his back and totally yields. It's slow, effortless, achingly perfect.

Lincoln kisses him and doesn't even say a word when Michael grabs whatever he can reach for.

He loves to go camping. One week each year, around April, when the nights are still cold. They zip the sleeping bags together, and (even if Lincoln will never admit it) they cuddle and snuggle against the chill of the dark.

oOo

Truth be told... the trip going back isn't bad either.

-END-


End file.
